A Meeting in Marseilles
by Imraphel
Summary: Hermione fulfils part of her grandfather's will.


It was hot. Blisteringly hot, in fact. For some unknown reason, the onshore breeze that had carried Mediterranean moisture over the parched city for the last few days had decided not to blow today. So Hermione swore quietly under her breath and cast a minimal cooling charm so that she would be only slightly uncomfortable. If she'd had a choice, she'd have cast a full strength spell that would have made the burning sun scarcely noticeable, but today, amongst hundreds of sweating people who had no access to magic, it would almost certainly get her noticed, and that broke about a hundred secrecy laws. So she suffered, a little less than the muggles around her, but still sufficient to strain her temper.

She flapped her shirt against her hot skin, the white cheesecloth failing entirely to provide any sort of cooling draught. Again. Reaching into her bag, she took out a bottle of water. Her bag, thank Merlin, could be and therefore was enchanted, and the water was deliciously cool and refreshing. She sighed, adjusted her sun hat and headed through the crowded streets.

She'd never asked why Granddad Granger had joined the Foreign Legion, had been too embarrassed to bring it up while the old man was alive. His will, and the letter it contained, had explained, at least a little. He'd apparently been in a fight, with someone well-connected, and had ended up in prison. Released just in time for the Crash of 1929, he'd quickly found that there was no work for an ex-convict, and had gone to France and joined up instead. The Legion, he wrote, gave a new chance to society's misfits. And it had. When France surrendered in 1940, he'd been in Algeria, and had got himself discharged there, making his way to Egypt where he'd ended up in the Eighth Army under Auchinleck and then Montgomery. But he'd always thought of himself as a Legionnaire, and, he'd written, a Legionnaire should always go home to the Legion.

So here she was, on a visit to the Legion memorial to leave his old decorations there, with a white lily, a fleur-de-lys to commemorate the men who'd fought and died alongside him. Standing in a crowded narrow street in Marseilles, waiting for the memorial parade, to see the men who had followed in her grandfather's footsteps hoping to find a new life away from their past.

She watched the long lines of men in their khaki. Green berets, white kepis, the pioneers with their beards and axes, the rumbling armoured vehicles and all the polished metal and leather. She wondered, looking at the disciplined ranks and emotionless faces, whether they had seen the sort of things she'd seen. Friends and companions cut down, bleeding and dying. It didn't, she supposed, make a lot of difference whether the wounds were from spells or technology; people died just the same, and the losses must hurt just as much. She brushed away a tear irritably. She was a witch, and a veteran of the war against Voldemort, and a Gryffindor, not some milksop. She straightened, caught the eye of one of the men, in the front rank as the Legionnaires stood at attention in front of their tanks and armoured cars.

Oh my God.

She blinked. It couldn't be. He was dead. And he'd hated muggles.

He was facing front, ramrod straight, the green beret of the Legion armoured regiment on his head. There was a new scar on his face, since she'd seen him last. But it was him, no question. Antonin Vassilij Dolohov. Death Eater, dedicated follower of the most evil wizard in centuries, expert duellist, famed for his brilliance with curses and famed more for his utter pitilessness. And, much to the relief of the wizarding world, safely dead and buried. Supposedly.

She wordlessly cast a vision enhancing charm, read the name on his uniform. Dolohov, it said. Gods, he was even using his own name? She examined him as he stood at attention. Same uniform as the rest, the rank markings of a caporal. A corporal then, probably commanding the tank behind him. She recognised the Medaille Militaire on his chest and wondered what he'd done to earn the decoration; the French did not exactly give it away. His face was the same expressionless mask as the men around him, but she knew, from the glint in his eye, that he'd recognised her. And done nothing.

Hermione Granger was not considered the most brilliant witch of her generation for no reason, and as she realised that this man, this most wanted and most evil wizard, had not only recognised the witch he'd cursed ten years ago, but let her know he'd recognised her, and then done absolutely nothing to prevent her simply leaving and contacting the authorities, her critical faculties went into overdrive. She discreetly, wordlessly, enhanced her personal wards and palmed her wand. But she did not leave to contact the Ministry of Magic back in England, nor its French equivalent. Instead she waited, watched the parade, followed the column back to the barracks. She found a bench near the main gates and took a seat, taking a notebook from her bag and drawing up the problem in Arithmantic equations. He would come, she was sure of it.

Laughter roused her from her calculations. Groups of uniformed Legionnaires were strolling out of the barracks, chatting and laughing in the familiar camaraderie of those who'd faced mortal peril together. She same sort of closeness she'd once shared with Harry and Ron, before she'd tired of being the invisible 'good old Hermione', the third, forgotten, adjunct to the Harry-and-Ron hero show. 'Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, Saviours of the Wizarding World', my arse. Who was it who saved your neck every year, Harry? Who was it who never left, who stayed at your side even when the world was falling in and everyone else, Ron included, hated you and ridiculed you? And who was it who you two discarded like an old shoe when her opinions didn't suit your celebrity and ambitions? Bastards.

She felt the familiar anger rise and forced it down again. No point in dwelling on it. At least it had meant that she was free of Molly bloody Weasley and her incessant matchmaking, able to go to university and study and make a career for herself. Which she had done. A double mastery in Arithmancy and Charms, and soon a third if she could get that Transfiguration project to work. Then, she was determined, Potions. For Professor Snape. Because without him they would all have died. And then, cross-disciplinary research at the Sorbonne, wards and curse-breaking and the invention of spells. She allowed herself to dwell on the dream for a few moments. A shadow loomed and she looked up.

Him. With half a dozen others.

He smiled; it looked wrong on that thin, scarred face. "Miss Granger. I thought it was you. In the crowd."

"You were right." Her voice was flat, unwelcoming, she knew.

"I usually am. I rather thought you would be Mrs Weasley by now."

She grimaced. That had cut too close. He gave the other men a brief grin, speaking in French. "Gentlemen, this is an old acquaintance of mine. I'll catch you up." He raised a hand. "And tell you all about it. Mine's a Stella Artois."

The soldiers grinned meaningfully at him and left, though not without a few speculative looks.

"May I sit down?"

She moved aside, giving him space and freeing her wand arm at the same time. He caught the movement and smiled again, this time with real humour in the expression.

"I do not intend to harm you, Miss Granger."

"That would be a switch. I still have the scar you gave me when I was fourteen."

He grimaced in his turn. "I will not say I regret it."

She looked at him, surprising a direct connection in those cold blue eyes. "The scar, or the curse that gave me it?"

"The scar. The curse should have killed you. That, I would regret. Might I enquire how you survived it?" The incongruous politeness of the question threw her for a moment.

"Professor Snape."

He nodded his understanding. "Severus was a genius. He was wasted as a servant to that maniac."

"He was a spy against that maniac."

"I know. It was a choice of great courage." He paused. "I suppose you want to know why you should not simply contact the Ministry?"

"Can you tell me?"

He shrugged. "Not really. They burned my purported body, I suppose?"

She nodded. "They burned all the bodies of the Death Eaters. With their wands."

"I'm sure Crabbe's ashes made a nice pile."

"You Transfigured the body? But we made sure to cast a Finite on all of them."

"I'm sure you did. There are ways round that though. I linked the transfiguration to my wand, reckoning that you would burn the wands with their owners. As long as he had it on him, Finite would not work. I was sorry to lose the wand though. It was one of Gregorovitch's finest."

"You took Crabbe's?"

He shook his head. "I took one from a dead student. Once I got abroad I sent it anonymously to the boy's parents."

She gulped. "Whose was it?"

"The Creevey boy. Merlin, he was young. Too young to fight people like us. Rodolphus couldn't believe it. He stood over the body, just looking down at it for a long moment. There were other students he could have attacked then; they would have been no match either, of course. But he saw Filius Flitwick instead, and challenged him."

"Flitwick was too good. He killed him."

"I saw it. Rodolphus left himself open to the move." He sighed.

"Rodolphus Lestrange let himself be killed?" She shook her head in disbelief.

Dolohov nodded, his face serious. "Rodolphus was not always an evil man. He wanted out, I think. He was not the only one. Not all of us were as fanatical as Bella or the Carrows. I saw your duel with her by the way. You were good."

"Molly was better." God, it hurt to admit that.

"Molly Weasley was older, and she was always good in a fight, even at Hogwarts. It runs in the family; her brothers were brave and skilled too."

"You killed them." It wasn't a question but he chose to answer it as such.

"Yes. Gideon gave Lucius something to remember him by, though. He's never been able to ride a broom properly since. And Lucius Malfoy was the best one on one duellist I ever saw, Tom Riddle included."

She looked at him curiously. "Not 'Voldemort'?"

"No. And certainly not 'Lord' anything. He ruined a generation, Miss Granger. Not just those who fought him, but those he seduced into following him."

"You could have left."

"Yes," he said drily. "Like Regulus Black. Or Igor Karkaroff."

She winced, nodded slowly. "Point taken."

"I was a soldier, Miss Granger. I fought and killed in a guerilla war. A brutal war of terror and stealth." His eyes met hers, briefly. "I was a bloody fool."

"And now?"

"I am still a soldier. The men I stand beside are comrades, as Riddle's Death Eaters never were nor could be. I am... honoured to fight alongside such men."

"My grandfather said the same." She smiled briefly, but her heart wasn't in the smile and she knew it showed. "He asked me, in his will, to visit the memorial."

"Your grandfather was in the Legion?"

She nodded, took out the old medals and the lily, showed him them. Dolohov nodded in...respect?

"Granddad said that the Legion gave men a second chance, even when they didn't believe they deserved it."

"He was right." He stood slowly. "I would like to hope that we can part on neutral terms, Miss Granger."

"You're officially dead. I think it's better for all of us if you stay dead, Mr Dolohov."

"Then you will not contact the authorities?"

She shook her head. "Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, to heal themselves. Even you. Be a better man, Mr Dolohov. That is all I would ask."

She stood and offered her hand, hesitantly, not sure if he would take it.

He took it, shook briefly. His felt no different from anyone else's hand. "Goodbye, Miss Granger."

"Goodbye, Mr Dolohov."

He turned and started to walk away. Then stopped. He looked over his shoulder at her.

"It was the Casus Despicum, Miss Granger. I believe Lucius may have a copy of it in his library." A wintry little smile. "You deserve a chance to heal yourself, too."

He turned and walked away, to the bar where his friends were waiting.

Hermione watched until he was swallowed by the crowds. Then she walked to the ancient memorial to pay tribute to her dead.


End file.
